The Imagined Land.

Last night, I went to the theatre. As I was settling down in my seat and switching my phone to silent, I noticed the couple a few rows ahead of me.

I couldn’t help notice them. He was pale and pasty. She was a redhead.

And his tongue was halfway down her throat. They were in a tight clinch, his hands were under her shirt and she was groaning like she was going to orgasm right there in row 3D.

The lights were still on. This was the Sandton theatre. A public space. A very public space.

I’m all for hand holding in public, a bit of footsie-footsie under the table, and even long delicious kisses against a dimly lit streetlamp.

In Paris. Not in a Johannesburg theatre. Especially when I’m inside that theatre.

I’d been looking forward to seeing ‘The Imagined Land’ for a long time so I really wanted to tell this couple to get a room. I was about to do just that when the lights went off and everything went quiet.

The set was beautiful; books suspended mid-air, each individually lit, like birds taking flight but words taking flight.

The play centres around an elderly white writer, her younger black biographer, his relationship with her daughter, race, stereotype, class and guilt.

It’s a very relevant play in relation to where South Africa is today.

It’s clever. It’s sassy. And it’s all about words. Finding words, making meaning of words and knowing which words to believe.

Kinda odd then, that I couldn’t find the simple words to tell this couple to fuck off.

The play was so good that I did eventually forget about them. And when the cast were taking their bow to a standing ovation and the audience were wiping their tears I noticed that they were no longer there.

Had they gone home to have sex? Had the sex been good? Why was he so pasty? How easy is it to orgasm in a chair? Was her hair naturally red?

I would never know.

A bit like the play. One never knows exactly what happens. But Imagined Lands can help us find our way.


The play stars Nat Ramabulana, Janna Ramos-Violante and Fiona Ramsay.

It’s written by Craig Higginson and directed by Malcolm Purkey.

It’s at The Auto and General Theatre on the Square, Sandton, until 12 September.

It is seriously brilliant.

Just in case.

This morning I had a feeling I was going to bump into that guy in the yellow shirt. I’d worn a pretty dress and splashed on a bit of perfume, just in case.

And there he was, at my coffee shop. Sitting at the counter, sipping his espresso, looking – a little old, a little worn, a lot sexy.

He gave me a hug hello as if we were best friends. It was a huge hug. A ten-minute hug. A hug that got me thinking ‘Oh god this is so nice but also jesus my coffee is getting cold and I really have to go grocery shopping hug.’

But I liked it. He smelled so good and his shirt was so soft.

I’ve only met him once, but it kinda feels like I’ve known him forever.

I can easily imagine him at home wandering around barefoot and listening to music.  I imagine he’s a good cook. I can see him in the kitchen, dishing up something yummy, wiping his hands on his apron and saying ‘Let’s eat.’

Then falling asleep in a sunbeam with an old Panama hat covering his face.

During the hug he told me his favorite film is The Big Lebowski.

My favorite film is The Big Lebowski.

Maybe everyone’s favorite film is The Big Lebowski.

But still. I have this weird feeling. That even with his terrible dress sense, high cholesterol and swarm of young and beautiful ex-wives, there’s something there.

We didn’t make a date. But I think we will soon.

I’ve booked a hair appointment and a leg wax. And I’ve stopped eating so I can fit into my little black dress.

Just in case.

Ten ways we’re being fucked over.

I had no plans this weekend. I wrote bad poetry, lazed around in sunbeams and read tons of glossy magazines

I struggled. Not with the heat or the haikus, but with the content.

Cosmo. Fair Lady. Woman and Home. Even Good Bloody Housekeeping.

It’s like a time warp. Reading the same stuff that we’ve been reading for years.

Five ways to remove your body hair.

Ten ways to lose weight.

Fifteen ways to change your sex life.

Twenty ways to hold on to your man.

How to buy the perfect bra

And how to throw a wedding for just one million rand.

How about admitting that the underwire of the bra that cost more than your car is killing you?

How about how not to have a wedding?

And maybe deciding that you don’t need to hold on to your man unless it’s while you’re having sex against the wall and he’s picked you up and goddammit you do not want to fall down.

I would change everything.

I would start with the headline – 10 ways Magazines are Fucking you over.

Give us stuff we want to read. Things we can relate to. Women who look real. Bras that don’t have underwire.

Give us stuff that’s juicy and engaging and exciting and even a little bit challenging.

Maybe I’m just difficult.  Maybe I’m reading the wrong magazines.

I’m going to give in and go back to the sunshine.

Don’t tell anyone but I’m taking Cosmo with me. I need to finish their ‘Sexier by Summer’ guide.

‘How to get the perfect bikini bod.’

See ya.


Today is a Saturday.

A strong coffee day

A freshly baked just out the oven croissant kinda day

A day to hang out

Laze around

And buy a frock day

Chat to friends on the phone

Nap in the sun

Get into some music day

It’s the same as every other day

And I love it.

On kindness.

Somebody did something extraordinarily kind for me today. I hadn’t asked for help but he knew I needed it. And just like that, he did this thing for me. A big thing. A ton of work thing. An amazing thing.

I feel blown away. Overwhelmed.

I do kind things. Small, kind things. I tip the car guards, I’m nice to waiters and I always say please and thank you. I’m that person who greets cashiers even when they are fuck awful rude to me, I say hi to fellow walkers and I help little old ladies cross the road.

I can also be rude. I often give the finger to bad drivers and I draw the line at greeting people in elevators, but that’s kinda obvious. That’s not even unkind.

But I don’t often do huge good deeds. Something that takes up a lot of time. Something real for nothing in return.

I feel so lucky at the ‘gift’ that I received. And I want to pay it forward.  I think as much as I loved receiving, I think this guy loved giving too.

So I want to share my skills.

I can’t exactly share my sexy stockings, underwear or g-spot stimulator.  I can’t share my vibrators, ticklers or handcuffs.

But I can share my veggies.  I’ve just picked all the spinach growing in my garden and I’m dropping it off at the shelter down the road.

It feels like a small gesture. And I’d like to do more. I think it’s time for some real community service

Anybody need anything?  For real. I’m ready. Give me a call.

I may even share my handcuffs.


Back off from the barbiturates.

I’ve never done hectic drugs. I tried cocaine twice, at no time did LSD or heroin and as much as I wanted to, ecstasy never passed my lips.

But I do have a thing for little white, pink and yellow pills. Tranquilisers. I’m not a junkie and I don’t buy my own, but if something is being passed around, hey, I’ll happily wash it down with my wine.

And it’s not really ‘passed around’ – just friends talking about their new little helper and me getting excited and saying ‘Ooooh, can I try one.’

A bit irresponsible, sure, but mostly harmless.

But there is a new pill on the market and it is making me mad. The Viagra for women that everyone is talking about. The pill to increase our sexual desire. Fibanserin.

No. No way.

If I want my sexual desire increased I want it increased by a man. I want him to talk to me and look at me and touch me in such a way that my body melts and my thighs tingle and my underwear drops to the floor without meaning to. I want my desire increased by a man slipping my dress off my shoulders, unzipping it, running his fingers along my back and down my buttocks. I want my sexual desire increased by a man kissing me gently on the side of my neck, then harder, moving his tongue from my face down my chest, to my nipples, down my belly, down, lower, lower.

There is no pill that I want to use for sexual desire.

There is, however, a medicine cabinet nearby with little pills in it.  That I’ve borrowed, of course.

And I think I need one, after writing that.

The pink one. Or the blue. Or the yellow…


Guide to flirting

I wrote this to help my girlfriend. The one that was such a bad flirt:-

  • Be friendly for fucks sake.
  • Bare your teeth.
  • Do not leave men bleeding to death on sidewalks.
  • Use those big blue eyes to your advantage.
  • Try hard not to roll them.
  • Wiggling your nose is cute.
  • But snorting and sneering are not.
  • A bit of lipstick and a splash of perfume are both useful.
  • So is a wonderbra.
  • Try a nurse’s uniform.
  • Whisper, don’t yell.
  • Do not punch men, even when they catcall.
  • Smile coquettishly when they do catcall.
  • Count yourself lucky that they still catcall.
  • Accept gifts if they are being offered.
  • And do not yawn, even when the gift is on bloodstained paper.

I thought I should ask her what she figured was the best way to flirt. Her answer:-

  • Get drunk, it’s the only way.

And maybe she’s right.  The pathetic loser in the yellow t-shirt has been trying to call her.

Not me!